RWB Workshop Poem of the Week—Jan 21, 2020
January 29, 2020Out of Tune
Tierra Sherlock
Whenever you came over,
you bee-lined for the guitar at the foot of my bed.
I tried to learn to play when I was younger.
I spent hours sliding my fingers across the steel strings
and pressing down so hard that they bled.
We laughed at how small my beginner guitar looked when you cradled it.
You said the quality was shit,
but you still reached for the pick you always carried in your wallet.
I watched how easily your fingers found the frets,
how you could feel for the right notes even with your eyes closed.
The strings never made a deep impression on your skin,
your fingers never bled.
The guitar hasn’t been tuned
since you stopped coming over.
I was never as good as you at letting the calluses form.
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